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Talk:May the Force Be with You/@comment-375045-20180816142032
This was another episode Del covered in his 2015 autobiography: While I was still recovering from being fleeced by Miranda, who should turn up but Roy Bleedin' Slater! Or, I should say, '''Detective Inspector' Roy Slater. I knew he'd be doing well, rising through the ranks, over West London way. It was an 'orrible world he moved in, everywhere he went, the risk of a sound kicking was never far away. But that's how the police force was back in them days. There was none of this human rights stuff, which was just as well for Slater 'cos he'd never been fully human. He'd built a career on taking bribes and kicking in teeth. The man was poison.'' To find he'd be transferred over to our patch was the worst news I could have got, and I got it in the worst way, when Rodney (proud owner of that year's Doziest Twonk award) invited him back from The Nag's Head. Course, Rodney didn't know who he was, even a dipstrick of his calibre wouldn't have invited Slater into our home if he had. Still, he was there and, predictably enough, out to cause as much grief as he possibly could. After asking us about a consignment of microwave ovens that had recently fallen off the back of a lorry, he bundled Rodney, Grandad, and I off to the local nick, determined to play one of his stupid little games. And it was stupid. I mean, what did he think he was gonna fit Grandad up with? Being in possession of a forged bus pass? Demanding protection money from the local Darby and Joan Club? But it was me Slater was really after. Rodney and Grandad were just what they call 'unilateral damage'. He had all three of us interrogated, spinning us in circles, trying to trip us up any which way he could. Finally he threatened to plant some drugs on Rodney and have him put away. It shouldn't have surprised me. I'd known a lot of coppers and never had a problem with 'em. I mean, I weren't mates with 'em or anything, but they played a fair game. And then there was Slater. The only way out, he said, was if I agreed to become one of his informants. The fact that I'd sooner be six feet under than be one of his lapdogs made it all the more enjoyable for him. He knew full well I'd always been one to keep my nose, and everything else, clean, and he was relishing every second of having me in his trap. Now, I'd been stuck between plenty of rocks and hard places before, but I won't lie, as diachotomies go, this one was forty-two carat! The idea of having Slater on my case forever was more than I could bear. He'd have me running all over the place, getting me to stitch up anyone I could. I couldn't have that. No way, Pedro! He was just about to have the charge sheets typed up when I had the idea. I told him that I did know of something he could use: the name of the bloke who had nicked the microwave ovens. But I told him I'd only give him the name if we could cut a deal. For his part of the deal, he'd have to let Rodney and Grandad go, and sign an official document granting me immunity from prosecution. He couldn't believe his luck. His face lit up like a sprog's on Christmas morning at the thought of having me in his grubby little pocket. A while later, he put the official document in front of me, so I signed it and gave him the name: Derek Trotter! He had no choice but to let us all go. As it turned out though, Slater was only the first of two unwelcome visitors from my past that year and, however unpleasant it had been dealing with him, the second bad penny was much, much worse.